


This war against your faith in me

by Trojie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Purgatory, Stockholm Syndrome, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 23:13:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel finally goes native not on Earth, but in Purgatory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This war against your faith in me

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'You Know What They Do To Guys Like Us In Prison' by My Chemical Romance. Written for the 'Stockholm Syndrome' square on my Hurt Comfort Bingo card.
> 
> Betaread by Kissyn, who is amazingly patient when I dump half-finished fics in her lap and make her watch for weeks as I wrestle with tenses, pronouns, and Castiel's (lack of) self-awareness.

It began with the pizza man.

Or, it began with the taste of hamburger. 

It began with oil on fire, with smeared blood written all over the walls, with white light and the shadows of wings in death, it began with a knife in the dark. It began with the heat of hell-torn skin under Castiel's fingers; his real fingers, unguarded by human form. 

It began with Dean. But the pizza man helped.

Uriel had a name for the state of mind of an angel of the garrison who had, in his eyes, been too long on Earth, become too close to humanity - he would say that they had 'gone native'. And he would say it in tones of great and weary disgust. Castiel never found it worthy of disgust, to be fond of the Earth and of people, but he too thought of it as 'going native' - as something he would never do. He was a good soldier. He did not have desires.

He kept himself apart, and slowly he broke everything else apart too, trying to save the Earth, to save Dean. He destroyed the Divine Plan trying to thwart it. He could not find his Father. He pulled Lucifer's vessel - _Sam_ \- from his cage, trying to fix a tiny part of the hurt he caused, but left part of Sam behind, and that made it worse. And then, of course, he brought the devastation of Leviathan down upon the Earth, razed the Heavenly Host, _usurped the throne_ \- 

Everything he did was wrong, flawed. Error upon error, compounded, because he would not repent. 

How human, Uriel might have said, but no - that righteousness, that unwillingness to bend, to change, to admit your own sin, is angelic through and through. And Castiel did it for Dean, because he wanted to be the angel on his shoulder when he should have just been his friend.

To start with, Dean looked at Castiel as if he was a miracle. Castiel was uncomfortable with the shadows of worship he saw in Dean's eyes, worship he knew Dean had never thought to give to God. And later Dean looked at Castiel the way he looked at Sam, and then it was hard to be a soldier, good or otherwise. But eventually Dean looked at Castiel as if his heart was breaking, and that was harder. The hardest, and Castiel is not unused to hardship.

They have never been good with each other. Or for each other. But Castiel tried. 

Castiel finally goes native not on Earth, but in Purgatory. 

***

The vampire Benny sparks every instinct Castiel has about _monsters_. But Dean trusts him, and Dean trusts so few - so Castiel defers to Dean's instincts instead of his own, and bides his time, holds his place at Dean's shoulder.

Benny understands Dean in a way that Castiel has never been able to - to see when he jokes and when he is deadly serious despite the lack of change in his tone or phrasing, to know when to follow him and when to leave him be. When to touch him. When he needs something and isn't asking. 

When Dean gets very angry, and fights recklessly, as if he wants to lose, as if he's daring the monsters of Purgatory to come for him, Castiel's first instinct is to demand of him _why?_ To shake him, to lay hands upon him. To find whatever it is that burns so sour in him and purge it, heal it.

But Benny cuffs Dean hard around the back of the head, and tells him that he needs to "get laid". 'You're carryin' a lot o' tension, brother.'

'Get off of me, Benny,' says Dean, shoving him away. 'And if that was an offer, I gotta tell you, I'm not tempted.'

'Nahh,' Benny drawls. 'You know you're not m'type.' He grins. And Dean grins. And as if by some miracle, much of the anger has drained out of the air, and Castiel does not understand how or why their avowal of mutual sexual disinterest should mend their ire.

He knows oddly certainly that that is not a joke he could have with Dean.

Dean leaves and Benny lets him, but Castiel follows, knowing Benny is watching him too and ignoring the way the vampire grins as if he knows something Castiel does not. Let him have his intuitions and instincts. Castiel will do what he knows is right - the one thing he _does_ know is right any more. Watch Dean. Take care of Dean. 

Dean should not wander alone in this dangerous place. He has refused to let Castiel leave him, so Castiel will follow him. Purgatory is not a place for half-measures of safety even if Castiel were inclined to take them.

It seems as if the trees part for Dean, while they do nothing but catch at Castiel. This is not his place, and it should not be Dean's either, but it is. Dean ducks and twists through the forest as if he is a part of it. Castiel has to force his way through. 

When Dean drops to his knees, Castiel freezes behind him. He did not know Dean had taken an injury - he starts to move closer, jerkily, trying to see; looking for blood under the mud, pain under the anger, but there's nothing he can find. Then Dean starts huffing breaths out into the still air, little whines, shaking and hunched over, one hand bracing him against a tree trunk, the other - his dominant hand, the one he needs for axes and knives and desperate roundhouse punches - curled into his body. 

He grunts, spreads his knees, and it is plain to see that he is on the point of collapse. The damage must be extensive; Castiel has never, in all his time with Dean, heard him make such harsh, bitten-off sounds before; rhythmic, wet and gasping, almost hungry. He circles around, trying to get into a position where he can see what is wrong.

Castiel wants, more than he has ever wanted a thing before, to make Dean be not in pain any more. That is what _he_ hungers for, hurts for. He doesn't realise he's stepped almost close enough for Dean to touch until Dean looks up at him, and he has his - he is - 

He is touching himself. No. He is pleasuring himself - in the ugly, imprecise words of what Castiel will forever think of as the pizza man, he is _jerking off_ , and it is that that makes him cry out in the grey, perpetual dawn light of Purgatory. And he keeps doing it even as Castiel watches him, even as their eyes meet. 

Castiel sucks in a sudden, harsh breath, like a punch to the gut, like being dizzy with blood loss. Human arousal swamps him. As with pain and hunger, sometimes his vessel will not be denied. Something sweet bites at him, tingles in his fingers, his toes, between his legs, where the pulse is suddenly pounding. He feels like he could fall like this; to his knees, and far from grace. He manages to keep to his feet, but he sways.

It would be so easy ...

Maybe this is not an injury, but oh, Castiel was right about the starvation. Dean is driving his cock into his fist punishingly hard, punitively fast, and his mouth is slack and wet, the green of his eyes blackened by the poor light and the vastness of his pupils, the bruise-circles of his eye sockets from a lack of sleep almost as terminal as any wound. As Castiel watches, unable to stop, Dean unfolds himself, leaning back, and Castiel realises that Dean is presenting himself. 

Dean is asking him to witness this, back on his heels with his flies open, just enough motion-light-gleam-slick that Castiel can see his movements, the way he does this thing that on Earth would be personal and that here is just … another animal thing, done in the dirt. Dean used to find joy in this - on his own or with company. Castiel knows. Castiel heard, saw, too much. Wanted too much. 

But he _did_ nothing. And he doesn't know how, now, faced with this. 

'Dean,' Castiel says; hoarse, unsure, over the slick sound of Dean touching himself. 'What should -'

'Cas,' Dean says low in his throat, and his vicious drumbeat rhythm falters. 'Fuck - Cas, I -'

'Let me help you,' Castiel begs, and Dean's eyes slam shut, he bites his lip hard, hard enough that a spider-webbed crack opens at the corner. Castiel is shaken to his core, to what is left of his soul, by the kind of desperation he sees when Dean's eyes open again, the pure, unguardedness of his expression, when he comes.

And when Dean gets shakily to his feet, and his face shutters over again, the shadows slotting into place again, so that he is naked in Castiel's sight no longer, Castiel stays where he is long enough for Dean to make it back to Benny, to leave a gap between their returns. Long enough to finally drop to his own knees, to shakily touch himself the same way Dean touched himself, hard and fast and choking on his own weak noises, and to make his own mess on the cold, damp ground. 

Long enough to scratch the toe of his shoe through the dark, clinging Purgatory mud and bury the evidence of what they did, because otherwise something might catch the scent, might hunt them with it. 

It is human to want things; it is monstrous to be hunted. 

'Going native' means that Castiel will take what he wants, and run.


End file.
